


The Adventure Of Shoscombe Old Place (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [202]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Secret Passages, Treasure Hunting, Yorkshire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A lighter case for the dynamic duo. As the Empire tenses over the future of its new king-emperor, they return to the East Riding of Yorkshire for a most unusual treasure-hunt - one that reduces John to tears.





	The Adventure Of Shoscombe Old Place (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



It was the month of July, and we were once more travelling up the East Riding of Yorkshire. It had been a tumultuous last few months since the Savage case had taken us to Kingston-upon-Hull, and it felt as if the country was still drawing breath. Though many (including myself, if I was honest) had been nervous about the prospect of King-Emperor Edward the Seventh acceding to the throne, the announcement that his reign might be curtailed by his recently-diagnosed appendicitis had come as a shock. The coronation had been postponed and the monarch operated on – a type of operation for which, the Empire had been warned, success could by no means be guaranteed. Fortunately my colleague Doctor Treves, who last year had performed the same operation of Mr. Lucius Holmes' lover Alfie, had again been successful, and the king-emperor was now out of danger, the coronation having been rescheduled for next month. 

I have always considered the East Riding to be one of the 'forgotten' parts of England, barely noticed by those passing it by on their way to distant Scotland. Kingston-upon-Hull was of course its principal port, and we changed there for a branch-line to the pretty little seaside town of Hornsea. There we were met by the man whose summons had brought us here, Sergeant Horatio Wilton of the Yorkshire Police, an amiable fair-haired giant of a policeman (and yes, depressingly young like they all were these days!), who seemed more than a little relieved at our arrival. The wind off the North Sea was blowing the man's wheaten locks into almost as bad a mess as that of the blue-eyed genius next to me.

Almost. Sherlock was in a class of his own when it came to bad hair. And for once, I was only partly responsible. Well, it had been a long journey, and I had seen no reason to waste a very good and very private first-class compartment. Besides, a doctor's bag was useful for the transportation of all sorts of, ahem, 'equipment'!

Sherlock looked at me. I gave silent thanks for the foresight that had had me wearing my looser trousers.

“I am sorry to summon you gentlemen up here at such short notice”, the sergeant said, dragging my mind away from its seemingly preferred gutter location, “but I really am hoping that you could help me avert a possible tragedy here.”

“So you said in your telegram”, Sherlock said, as we left the town behind and bowled along the track (I would have hesitated to award it the title 'road') north towards distant Bridlington. “Pray, who is in danger, and how exactly do you think our presence can avert this tragedy?”

“I have something to show you ahead, first”, he said. “About a mile from here. It helps explain what's been going on, and I am sure the doctor in particular would be interested in it.”

+~+~+

A few minutes later, we stopped at a farm gate. The only thing at all unusual about it was a poorly-maintained gravel track which led off the 'road' through it and down to a bay half a mile to the east, and which seemed to serve no real purpose. But there was something familiar about the field either side of it, with strange markings either side of the track. My mind sprang back to Rutlandshire and the 'lost' village of Martinsthorpe. The first part of our adventure at the famous Priory School had, coincidentally, appeared in the “Strand” magazine only last week

“Another abandoned village?” I asked. 

“Not exactly”, our guide said. “This is Shoscombe-on-Sea, or rather, it was supposed to be. Do you see the big house on the cliff top a mile up ahead?”

We both looked. There was indeed a house there, a ruin by the looks of it perched perilously close to the cliff edge.

“That is Shoscombe Old Place”, the sergeant said. “The late Mr. Abanezer Ketch lived there until his death a while back. The coast here advances and retreats with some speed, and a large part of the cliff beyond the house only fell into the sea some five years ago.”

“And this place?” Sherlock asked.

“It was to be a new seaside resort, to rival Bridlington and Scarborough”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Ketch hoped that the railway that you came up would be extended here, and possibly then through to Bridlington, but the place never took off. Abandoned before it was even settled. The whole thing did a lot of damage to the family's finances – which is where I am hoping that you gentlemen can ride to the rescue.”

“Like the cavalry”, Sherlock smiled. “Well, it is an interesting tale. But I still do not see any danger, except structurally to that house.”

“Mr. Abanezer, the father of the current owner Mr. Arthur, died some four years back, just when this place failed to make a go of it”, the sergeant said. “They had already abandoned the Old Place and moved to a large house in Shoscombe village, half a mile inland. The old man had not been on good terms with his son and heir; word was that he considered that he didn't really try hard enough with the resort, especially after he missed a meeting with the railway officials over the possible extension.”

“Last month, Mr. Arthur decided to sell off the land the house is on to a local farmer. When he did so, he triggered a secret clause in his late father's will. The lawyer, a Mr. Percy Poddington – a right oily little git, in my humble opinion! - posted a note on the wall of the Royal Oak in the town that there was a great treasure in the abandoned Old Place for anyone who cared to take it. Since then of course, the place has been crawling with people, and last week half of the garden fell onto the beach when some of them were inside. I am afraid that someone will get hurt, if only because all that wear and tear is weakening a structure already close to collapse.”

“So you want us to find it and prevent someone going into the sea along with the place”, Sherlock said. “I see. Surely as he still owns the property, Mr. Arthur Ketch could merely claim ownership of the item once it is found?”

“Whatever it is, his father revoked all the family's rights to it under the will”, the sergeant said. “It's basically finder's keeper's, though knowing Mr. Arthur, it's probably also finder's right to be sued by the pernicious Poddington the minute that they find it.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I would welcome your _personal_ opinion about Mr. Arthur Ketch, sergeant”, he said. “I presume that his family have been here for a long time?”

“Legend has it they came over with Edward the Fourth in fourteen hundred and seventy-one, when he reclaimed the throne from Henry the Sixth”, he said. “He landed at Ravenspur, near Hull, another place that's been lost to the sea since. They've certainly been here as long as most people can remember, and they're not that well-liked. Some of the villagers used the resort beach for their fishing-boats, and Mr. Abanezer tried to stop them whilst he was planning for his 'great resort'. There's nowhere else for a couple of miles in either direction as it's all cliffs, so that hit people hard. Which, as you may guess, means lots of them are up for a chance to snatch the family fortune. If it exists.”

“If it exists”, Sherlock echoed. “It might be old Mr. Ketch's way of pulling a belated prank on all the people who disliked him, as well as on his own family.”

The sergeant's face fell.

“I never thought of that”, he said glumly. 

“Cheer up”, Sherlock said. “We shall work on the assumption that he was not that cruel, if only because otherwise, our presence here is pointless. Let us see what we can do.”

+~+~+

I do not really believe in ghosts or the preternatural, save possibly for the three seers I had come across during our investigations; Miss Pamela Barnes (now Mrs. Cynric Musgrave), Mrs. Missouri Moseley and Mr. Kevin Tran. And, of course, our recently 'saintly' excursion to West Suffolk. However, I felt very nervous as Sherlock, the sergeant and I entered the shell of Shoscombe Old Place. Everything of value had been taken, but there were still signs enough that a family had lived here, fighting the daily battle for existence that is humanity. The cold easterly wind blowing through the holes where the windows had been did not help.

Sherlock, the bastard, obviously knew that I was edgy, and chose to put a hand on my shoulder from behind without warning. I jumped and gave a relatively unmanly squeal, causing the sergeant to smile. I scowled at my soon to be ex-friend.

“You have told us, sergeant, that Mr. Abanezer Ketch was not overly fond of his son”, Sherlock said, smirking far too loudly in my opinion. “Was there anyone, family or otherwise, whom he might have regarded more warmly?”

“Not in his family, sir”, the sergeant said firmly, holding up his lantern. It was not yet dark, but the grey walls reflected little of the sunlight there was on the cloudy day outside. “The late Mrs. Ketch had a few items of personal jewellery, but Mr. Arthur gave those all to her sister, as she had wanted. Mr. Abanezer only had a few distant cousins, of whom he always said they were not distant enough! He was fair with his servants though, I'll give him that. All of them got legacies according to their station, more than their likes usually get from nobs these days. He even left a sum to the county's Police Widows' and Orphans' Fund, which is something I help run; his family had some coppers in it somewhere back if I remember. But he wasn't really close to anyone.”

“A pity”, Sherlock said. “Let us assume that he played fair, and left something here. It would have to be well-hidden, or it would have been found already. Unless there is somewhere that the local people have not been able to look?”

“Only the wine-cellars, sir”, he said. “We checked those thoroughly before sealing them off with cement. The steps down were unsafe.”

Sherlock nodded, and I went over to look at the bay window, which had a bench cupboard. I opened it, but found nothing except a rather large spider, which I generously decided to leave in peace.

“This is unproductive”, Sherlock said, smirking at me again for some unknown reason. “Was there anything that the late Mr. Abanezer had taken out of the house before he died, sergeant?”

“Only his flag, sir.”

“His what?” I asked.

“He claimed it was from an ancestor of his who fought at the siege of Hull, sir”, the sergeant said. “Civil war artifact. Tattered old thing; he had it preserved in a glass case, and his son has it on loan to the local museum. He used to fly a copy outside, but the flagpole got blown over shortly before he died.”

“I think that I should like to see that flag”, Sherlock said. “I am inclined to believe that Mr. Ketch would have left some sort of clue to reward those of some ability, rather than just have everyone search fruitlessly and perhaps someone get lucky by sheer chance. Let us go and examine it.”

+~+~+

We walked back down to the village, and I for one was glad to leave the old ruin behind us. The curator of the museum was a white-haired old gentleman called Mr. Burton, and he was talking to a dark-haired middle-aged man in a sharp suit who turned out to be none other than Mr. Arthur Ketch. He looked at us dubiously when the sergeant introduced us, but agreed that we might look at the old flag. As it was on display in a public museum, I hardly saw how he could have stopped us.

“I thought that the old man had done something with it”, Mr. Ketch said. “He was mad keen on flags – he had several copies made because the one he flew outside kept wearing out – and he wanted me to keep flying the family one in my new place, which I do.”

“You have your own flag?” Sherlock asked.

“Seven horseshoes and a white rose”, the man said proudly. “The old man even had it officially approved by some bod in London.”

“The Garter King of Arms”, I muttered, my opinion of this jackanapes lowering by the minute. 'Some bod' indeed!

“This is it”, Mr. Burton said, stopping by a glass case. “As you can see it is a bit damaged, but definitely a Royalist flag from that time.”

I nodded. The flag was indeed almost half-gone, but it certainly looked authentic. I do not know what if anything Sherlock had hoped to find in it, but he looked disappointed.

“Do you still fly your own flag at your new house?” I asked Mr. Ketch. He nodded.

“Oh yes”, he said firmly. “We make sure everyone knows that there is still a Ketch in the area.”

Your ego alone should tell them that, I thought silently. Sherlock looked at me and coughed pointedly. Damnation, was he reading my mind _again?_

He did not need to nod at that point, either!

+~+~+

The sergeant had booked the two of us into Shoscombe's solitary inn, the 'Robin Hood', for our stay, and I endured a rough night's sleep. Bizarrely, not sleeping with a human octopus was strangely unsettling. Judging from his pallor, Sherlock too had had little sleep, and we went for a short walk before breakfast. 

“The opinion amongst the people in the bar last night was that Mr. Abanezer Ketch was indeed something of a joker”, Sherlock said as we were headed back down the village's single road to the inn. “But always a fair man. The blacksmith said that he drove a hard bargain for anything he wanted, but that he stuck to deals once they were made. Unlike his son, he added. I do not think that Mr. Abanezer would have left nothing for people to find.”

“Unless he disliked his son enough”, I said. “There seems to have been little in the way of familial affection between the two of them.”

We arrived back at the inn to find the sergeant waiting for us.

“I remembered something last night”, he said as we all ate an indifferent breakfast of bacon and eggs (Sherlock had insisted on ordering a breakfast for the sergeant, who unsurprisingly had not objected). “You remember that plinth in the gallery, sirs?”

I did, a huge thing in the centre of the room.

“Well”, he said, “on it there was a replica of a ship that one of Mr. Ketch's ancestors claimed to have served on. A warship called the _“Guinnegatte”_. He donated it to the museum.”

“Surely that is cheating”, I objected. “He told everyone that the treasure was in the house.”

“Perhaps that is it”, Sherlock said.

I looked at him.

“What is?”

“Possibly he said in his will that the treasure _was_ in the house. Imperfect tense 'was', not present 'is'. Well done, sergeant. We need to return to the museum and check out that model immediately.”

The policeman's face fell.

“Immediately after breakfast”, Sherlock clarified.

Sergeant Wilton beamed. I bit back a smile.

+~+~+

Mr. Burton was not unnaturally a little nervous about our examining if not dismantling what he viewed as 'his' model (even though it was technically the property of Mr. Ketch), so Sherlock said that he would telegraph London for an expert to come up on Monday and do a professional analysis if the owner agreed. We did make a cursory examination, but it seemed like it was just what it appeared to be, a detailed model of an old-time sailing ship. The day passed otherwise uneventfully, except that I noticed that the church had replaced the Union Jack of the day before with the Royal Standard. I asked the vicar, the Reverend Timmins, why this was.

“Every year, we mark the siege of Hull”, he explained. “It was one of the turning points of the Civil War; if the King had been able to take it at that time, his army could have marched south and fallen on first the Eastern Association and then London. The anniversary was on Thursday, but we have a special service the Sunday after.”

“This was a Royalist area?” Sherlock asked. The priest nodded. 

“Hull was for parliament, whilst Bridlington was Royalist”, he explained, “so we were in the middle. Luckily this is pretty much out of the road to anywhere, so we avoided the fates of some other less fortunate areas.”

I thought back to our recent case at Redford, and shuddered. Those had been dangerous times. Thank Heaven we lived in a more understanding age, in a country where we were far less prone to fight each other over religion. Such attitudes belonged firmly in the past, or in less enlightened and far distant lands.

+~+~+

The service on Sunday was a little long, I thought, and we got to see Mr. Ketch and his family sitting in the family pew. Mrs. Ketch looked formidable, about twice the size of her husband, and their three children (two sons and a daughter) looked mirror images of their parents, the poor things. I was aware that Sherlock seemed distracted over something or other, but I did not push. He would tell me in his own good time. 

When the service was over we all trooped out, and somehow I managed to lose the little scruffian. I was sure that I only took my eyes off his for a moment to talk to the vicar, but he was gone. I could not find him anywhere until he came out of the church some little time later, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I think that I am getting to rather like the late Mr. Abanezer Ketch”, he said enigmatically. “Tell me, reverend, is the family flag in there only hung out for special occasions like today?”

The vicar looked confused.

“Not exactly, sir” he said. “Normally it hangs from the high rail above the family pew, but for today's service it is always moved to directly opposite the door, across the old entrance to the west.”

Sherlock thanked him, and we left. I waited until we were alone before turning on him.

“What did you find?” I demanded.

“I think that I may have found where the treasure is”, he said. “We need to go back to the Old Place to see if it is still there.”

“How do you know?” I demanded. He walked a little away from me, grinning.

“I will tell you later!” he called over his shoulder.

Sometimes I hated him!

+~+~+

Sherlock called in at the lawyer's office next, and came out smiling even more.

“Did you learn anything new?” I asked.

“As I suspected, the Ketches were originally Catholic”, he said airily. “They did not convert to the Protestant faith until the time of King Charles the First.”

Obviously that meant something, and equally obviously, I was not to be told. I pouted, but followed him as we hired two horses to take us to the beach at Shoscombe-on-Sea. 

It felt more than a little eerie, riding down a High Street that would now never have any houses, and I was glad when we reached the end and tied the horses to the gate-post by the gravel track. He led me down onto the stony shore and turned to me.

“This had been an interesting case”, he smiled, “and I think I know where to look for the treasure that the late Mr. Ketch so cleverly hid.”

“Where?” I demanded at once. He smiled at my impatience.

“When I was in the church, I looked up at the family flag that normally hangs directly over the heads of his son and his family”, Sherlock said, walking towards Shoscombe Old Place as he spoke. “It struck me that, from what I knew of his character, the late Mr. Abanezer Ketch would have taken particular pleasure in placing the solution to the problem so close to his son that he would never think to look for it there. Once everyone had left the church, I examined the flag more closely. There were messages sewn into both the white rose and the horseshoe pins. The rose first; the message there was _'vita sicut acta'_ , which translates roughly as 'life is a beach'.”

“The treasure is on the beach?” I said, following him. It was, after all, a large beach, stretching almost a mile from end to end. He shook his head.

“Then there was what the sergeant told us, which was only half-true”, he said.

“He lied?” I said, surprised.

“I did not say that”, Sherlock said. “He told us that the late Mr. Abanezer Ketch had said that the treasure was in the building. That, however, was not what the will actually said; as I suggested, the wording was indeed important. The will stated that the treasure was at Shoscombe Old Place, but not in the grounds around the house.”

“I do not see the difference”, I said, pouting. We were almost up to the cliff beneath the building by now, though because of the angle we could no longer see it. Unless it decided to fall on us!

Sherlock turned and stared back southwards, seemingly looking for something out back towards Hornsea. I followed his vision, but could see nothing except a distant boat or ship, too far to make out any detail.

“Do you think.....?” I began, turning back to him.

He had vanished.

I stared around in shock. We had been at the far end of the bay, and the sheer rock face ran out into the sea. Unless he had grown wings like the angel whose name he bore and had flown off, I could not see where he had gone. Stupidly, I felt panic rising within me.

“Sherlock!” I yelled.

Incredibly, he materialized from behind the sheer rock face. I stared in shock.

“A clever illusion”, he explained. “There is an entrance just behind..... John?”

It was ridiculous. He had been gone for barely ten seconds, and I was already having a panic attack. I tried to pull myself together, but the contrite look on his face was too much for me, and I broke down in tears. He rushed forwards and sat me down on the pebbles, scenting me to try to calm my breathing. I was ashamed at my reactions, but I could not help myself.

“I am sorry”, he said gently. “I should have thought....”

I rolled him over and pinned him to the ground. Physically he was stronger than me, I knew, but I was high on a mixture of fear and anger. He looked up at me, and nodded.

“Take me, John”, he ordered.

We were on a public beach, even though at the far end and it being a little-used one, but I could not have stopped for all the tea in China. I almost tore his trousers trying to get them off, and did actually rip his underwear when in my frustration I was unable to remove it quickly enough. Whipping out my own cock took far too long, but he used the time to quickly prepare himself, and I was able to thrust right in, letting out a blissful sigh as I did so.

“Harder!” he commanded. “John, push!”

I attacked his hole like I was trying to forge my own journey to the centre of the Earth, charging away like it was my last night on earth. My own eyes were watering with the effort, but I had just enough sense left to wrap one hand around his cock and jerk him off. Normally he was able to resist me until after I myself had come, but this time he came almost at once, his clenching of his walls dragging me over the edge after him. I almost collapsed on top of him, using my hands to support myself.

Ye Gods, what had I done?

He ran a gentle hand around my stubbled chin, and smiled up at me. 

“We are most definitely doing that again!” he said firmly.

I fell onto him, kissing him for all I was worth. I must have been a saint in a previous life to have deserved this man!

+~+~+

The passage behind the cleverly-used rock-face was much wider than I would have expected, and led towards the Old Place.

“This was a largely Catholic area in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries”, Sherlock said, “but there was always the danger that the authorities might descend on the house and try to seize the owners. I deduced that there must have been a secret passage out to the beach, so they could escape if necessary.”

“I am surprised that Mr. Arthur Ketch did not know about it”, I observed. I was still feeling more than a little ashamed of my actions outside, and Sherlock ran a hand gently over my trousers. I shuddered, not just at that but at the fact I knew he now had no underwear on. 

“Mr. Abanezer Ketch knew his son's disregard for history, and decided not to tell him”, he said. “It tells badly on his son's character that, given the number of servants such a house must have needed, none of them told either; clearly he was uniformly disliked. Before he died, Mr. Abanezer had the builders in to seal off the entrance at the house end. However, that still left the sea-entrance. If I have this right, then the treasure should be in the sealed room behind the old entrance, hence technically 'in the Old Place' but only accessible from the beach in the clue.”

“Sneaky”, I said, admiringly.

The passageway ended at some steps, which ascended to a door. Sherlock easily picked the lock, and we entered to find an almost totally empty room, apart from one old table on which stood a small gold treasure-chest, just over a foot across. Sherlock opened it, looked inside and smiled.

“We have succeeded”, he said. “Come, let us go and make sure that this goes to the people that the late Mr. Ketch would have wished it to.”

I nodded, and followed him from the room. We were almost back on the beach when he suddenly stopped, and I almost ran into him.

“But before we go”, he growled, “it is my turn!”

How what was left of me made it back to the horses, the Lord alone knew! And the ride back was absolute agony!

+~+~+

The next day, Sherlock took me back to the Old Place. It was cold for the middle of summer, and I shivered, thinking longingly of Baker Street and a roaring fire. Then I thought of the journey back in a locked first-class compartment, and I shivered for quite a different reason.

“I asked Sergeant Wilton to bring Mr. Arthur Ketch here”, Sherlock said, looking at me knowingly. “We should not have to wait too long for them.”

I nodded, willing the men to arrive quickly. It seemed like an eternity before they did, but finally they came through the open doorway, and Sherlock led us all into the gallery. He turned to Mr. Ketch.

“I wish to be quite clear about the terms of this 'treasure hunt'”, he said. “Your father revoked all rights to the items he hid in this house, did he not?”

“He did, the old fool!” Mr. Ketch said angrily. “And Poddington is champing at the bit to have a go at anyone who tries to walk off with it!”

Sherlock nodded.

“And one of the terms is that each seeker can take only one item from the house, is that not the case?”

The landowner looked at him uncertainly.

“Yes”, he said. “What? You think you have found it?”

He sounded incredulous. Sherlock smiled knowingly, then reached down behind the plinth and produced the treasure-chest that he had found the day before. Opening it, he withdrew two leather pouches. He carefully opened the first, and poured the contents out onto the wide flat surface. It contained nothing but a large number of tarnished old coins.

“Is that it?” Mr. Ketch said scornfully. “A few old pennies?”

Sherlock smiled, and emptied out the second bag just as carefully. The contents of this were rather more impressive – a number of small pieces of gold jewellery, and several loose and large gemstones. Mr. Ketch stepped firmly forward. 

“Mine, I think”, he said, quickly pushing the treasure back into the pouch. He made to leave, but Sherlock grabbed him by the hand.

“One moment”, he said. “I believe that _I_ was the person who found these gewgaws. And as a consulting detective, I have _fees and expenses_ , Mr. Ketch!”

The look on the man's face was almost comical, as he clutched his treasure to his chest. He looked around desperately, and his eyes fell on the pile of old coins.

“Do you accept payment in coin, Mr. Holmes?” he asked hopefully.

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner.

“I suppose that I could sell some, and keep the rest as a memento”, he said resignedly. “Very well.”

The landowner could hardly suppress his glee, and actually collided with the door-frame in his haste to leave. Sherlock replaced the coins in the remaining pouch and smiled.

“You let him take the treasure!" the sergeant said accusingly.

“I suggest that we adjourn to the inn”, Sherlock said dryly, “before nature takes its course and we end up on the beach along with this old ruin. Come, gentlemen.”

He led the way out, and we both followed.

+~+~+

Over three pints of the quite pleasant local beer, Sherlock sat back and placed the pouch of coins on the table in front of us.

“How did you know where to look?” I asked.

“Mr. Abanezer Ketch told me”, he said with a smile. “In fact, he told anyone who had their eyes open. I was just the first to spot it.”

“Spot what?” the sergeant asked. 

“Mr. Abanezer did not like his son”, Sherlock said, “so he planned a little revenge. In fact, it was quite an impressively large revenge, and I have to doff my hat to the man. He first converted as much of the estate as he could into something small that could easily be hidden away somewhere. He covered his tracks exceptionally well; it took even the resourceful Miss Charlotta Bradbury nearly a whole day to find out what he had bought with the money.”

“The jewels”, the sergeant said, nodding.

“However, Mr. Abanezer was above all a fair man”, Sherlock said. “His dealings with the business people in the town were hard, but he kept to his word at all times. And he made sure that the details of the treasure's hiding-place lay in plain sight all along.”

“The family flag in the church”, I said.

“That flag, sergeant, had two clues on it, both in Latin”, Sherlock said. “The first led us to the beach and the discovery of the old secret passage used in more turbulent times, which Mr. Abanezer Ketch had had sealed off at the house end. Hence he was able to go down to the beach and up inside his house, placing the treasure where only someone doing the same could ever hope to find it. I would wager that the old man chuckled every time he thought of his son in the family pew, and the answer as to where the treasure was hanging a yard or so above his head. If he had ever glanced heavenwards and looked closely at the piece of cloth that he so often derided his father's interest in, he would have seen it.”

I nodded.

“I still don't see why you let him have the treasure, though”, the sergeant said, looking annoyed. “I mean, it is not as if he needs the money.”

“You, presumably, would have donated it all to the Widows' and Orphans' Fund”, Sherlock grinned, “and not have kept a..... penny of it.”

“Of course”, he said. “Money cannot buy happiness.”

I stared at Sherlock. I knew him well enough by now to know when there was something behind that pause.

“Oh my Lord!” I blurted out.

The sergeant looked at me in surprise.

“'Not a penny'!” I said. “Those jewels and all that gold – they were fake!”

“Indeed”, Sherlock grinned. “Fool's gold, appropriately enough, and some nice, sparkly rhinestones. I only wish I were there when Mr. Ketch finds out, although perhaps we may if we are lucky hear the resultant scream.”

“So there was no treasure?” the sergeant asked.

“The second clue on the flag was another phrase in what is called 'dog Latin'”, Sherlock said. Seeing the sergeant's nonplussed face, he continued, “it is where one takes a modern phrase and translates it into that language, even though the Romans themselves would never have said it. The message, hidden in the pins of the horseshoes, was _'omnis quis coruscat non est or'_.”

“Shakespeare”, I explained. “'All that glisters is not gold'. From 'The Merchant of Venice'.”

Sherlock pushed the pouch of coins across the table to the constable.

“Miss Bradbury thinks that she has tracked down most if not all of Mr. Abanezer Ketch's monetary purchases”, he said. “He left his son a fair sum of money, and knew his character was such that he would go for all that glistered rather than 'a few old pennies' which, if he had bothered to examine them closely, he would have found were some of the most ancient coins from this island's long and colourful history. And let us remember, Mr. Arthur Ketch has, in the presence of a doctor and a police officer, renounced all rights to the real treasure that he was so close to having. I do hope that the widows and orphans of East Riding's brave policemen appreciate his most bounteous generosity!”

+~+~+

We stayed an extra day in Yorkshire, during which Sherlock did an interview with a local paper. In it, he thanked Mr. Arthur Ketch for so 'kindly' donating the treasure to the Police Widows' and Orphans' Fund, a move which left the presumably irate landowner even more powerless to react as he had indeed waived his rights to the coins in front of professional gentlemen. The coins were soon valued, and turned out to have a total worth in excess of two thousand pounds. The local constabulary presented Sherlock with a framed copy of the most expensive one, a denarius, and my friend kept it proudly on display on his bookcase in Baker Street.

Slap bang next to The Photograph from Reigate, damn him!

+~+~+

In our next adventure we head North yet again, this time to Derbyshire, and a man's death leads to a squabble over an estate.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Shoscombe-on-Sea is based on the real-life 'failed' Victorian town of Ravenscar, some miles further up the east coast. And the 'few old pennies' would be worth a minimum of £200,000 ($260,000) at 2017 prices, probably many times that as the value of rare coins has always outstripped inflation by some distance.


End file.
